


irse fuera

by fieryrondo



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Character Study, Don't copy to another site, Gen, POV Second Person, Unbeta'ed, birthday fic, blink and you'll miss it yuzuvier, where fiery proceeds to exercise every bad writing habit in their arsenal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryrondo/pseuds/fieryrondo
Summary: You remember it, the first stroke.Written in honor of Javier Fernández's 28th birthday.





	irse fuera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetSalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSalt/gifts).



> "Hago seminarios y campamentos, pero mi deseo es ser entrenador en España para que ningún niño tenga que irse fuera".
> 
> "I do seminars and camps, but my desire is to be a coach in Spain so that no child has to go outside." - [Javier Fernández](https://www.elmundo.es/vida-sana/bienestar/2019/04/13/5ca7317f21efa0e01d8b479c.html)
> 
> I also want to dedicate this fic to my beta, SweetSalt. Though I'm a little fuzzy on the chronology (at this point we realized that tumblr is crap at tracking dms), two years ago you asked me if you could beta for me. Since then, I've been a very different fan and writer but I hope this work still captures some of the same spirit that drew you to my work in the first place!
> 
> Standard RPF disclaimer applies. This is obviously a work of fiction and characters featured are not meant to represent their actual real life counterparts.

You remember it, the first stroke. A blade pressed into ice, a wobble and step. Wobble and step, wobble and step, wobble and oh and a shriek, you tumble and splat. You squeal at your reflection in the ice, peeking up at you, but a few hushed words later, you're pulled back up to your feet, ice brushed from your jacket, your pants. The ice is cold and hard, but with a shush, Laura wipes the tears away, kisses you on the cheek, ruffles your hair. Hand clamped tight around yours, she guides you, shows you how to push the blade, how to bend your knee, not to kick a football but to accelerate, to glide. Before the end of the session, you've already let go of her hand, and have figured out how to move on the ice on your own in little scooter steps. You watch someone do a waltz jump and decide you can do it too. You go for it, but your toe pick catches the ice before you can even get a boot off the ground and you fall. You cry and cry and cry and Laura takes you home but the next time you see her packing her skates, you're whining to get back on the ice again.

 

The start of every dream is like a flower, easy to plant but harder to grow. Spain is not a country of winter and ice skating is but a seasonal delight, a place to seek relief from the summer sun. There is no interest in skating in Spain, not real interest anyway. Sometimes people will watch, but family doesn't count. Not your mother's neighbor or your sister's classmate, your father's drinking friend, but even when they come to a near empty venue to watch, they do it with the soft indulgent smile of someone who thinks your skating is but a passing fancy, something you'll grow out of. And for a time, you almost believe this. Discouraged by your lack of progress, you quit in dramatic teenage fashion, trash your skates deep in your closet, pretend you don’t care. Maybe you'll take up tennis, football, hockey, a real man's sport, anything but this. _Nunca más, nunca más, nunca más_ never again!

 

But it doesn’t pass. The allure of the ice and its promise of flight tugs at you like a lost child. Like a weed, your dream persists, thrives even, the harder you stamp it out. You miss it, and you cry, and you hate your tears, because you know that even as you come in dead last in every international competition, the hopes of medals, the sensation of flying through the air, are too deep to uproot of your own volition. You have never wanted so badly.

 

And so you pick up your skates again, waiting for time to wither your dream to dust. Until one sunny day in Andorra, a heavy hand rests on your shoulder, thick-accented English you can barely understand ringing in your ears. But the language of skating is universal and when Nikolai offers you a once in a lifetime chance, a shot at making your impossible dream real, the promise shoots through your lips faster than your brain. _Yes, yes, I go with you._

 

Look before you leap, a maxim drilled into your head as early as your first days on the ice, but it’s something that you’ve never learned well. Your heart’s already left the ground, your head slow to follow, pulled along for the ride like a petulant child who is so sure they know exactly what is it that tethers their heart. You will not see the sunny terraces of Madrid for a long time.

 

It has always been a dream of yours to see the world. Yet dreams are beautifully cruel things, polished smooth and mirror-bright with hope that edges on despair. Hope is a choked candle in the darkness of a blank room, your hands as wooden as the pieces they grasp. You know what a bed is supposed to look like, but you have no idea how to get there. With a broomstick tied to your back, unapologetic English shoved into your ears, you skate and spin and jump. In New Jersey. In Moscow. In Ukraine. Wherever, whenever, whatever. Nikolai points. You skate. Faster, higher, further, until finally, it hits you that you see your parents waving the Spanish flag at your first Olympics. For two glorious nights in Vancouver, you can see the stars.

 

But these stars aren’t the ones you’re looking for.

 

So you skate. And skate and skate and skate, until you become sick of it, your strokes powered with more desperation than speed. The world moves on, your rinkmates move on, Nikolai moves on, when all you want to do is stand still. You don’t bother to unpack anymore--what was the point?--only curl up on borrowed sheets and try to breathe.

 

You try. But trying isn’t enough. You find yourself counting the days to Sochi, the days of your self-imposed exile. So immeasurably long! you moan before shame steals over you on the heels of your family’s sacrifice. You’ve done many things you’re not proud of, but asking for money is the worst. Especially when you have nothing to show for your efforts. And the worst part of all is that they’re never disappointed. Your father speaks reassurance, your mother only love.

 

You wake up, shaking like a leaf at a train station in the middle of nowhere, where an elderly woman shouts at you in rapid-fire Japanese. You try to get up but your stiffened legs give out on you. You have never missed your mother so much. It is only many years later, under the safety of interlaced fingers and shared blankets, does Yuzuru work it out that the woman only meant to help.

 

“I definitely needed help,” you tell him. The sound from your throat is too short for a laugh. “But I was afraid to ask.”

 

So you push. Push and push and push, until one day, in god knows where Europe, something snaps. You quit. You go home. You give up skating _again_ , this time for good, so you could live.

 

Your mother makes your favorite things. You cheer on Real Madrid with your father. Laura spoils you rotten. You talk to a therapist, who recommends a book, which you actually end up enjoying. You wonder if you’ll be fortunate enough to meet a Socrates someday.

 

Bit by bit, you heal.

 

You get a call from the skating federation. This time, you don’t rush. This time, you listen. You reason. You deliberate. But in the end, you go where your heart tells you. You've always been foolish like that. The little boy from Madrid in you remembers.

 

Two months later, Brian shakes you warmly by the hand and stumbles through a Spanish greeting in the worst accent you’ve ever heard.

 

"I can speak English, you know."

 

"That doesn't mean I shouldn't learn Spanish," Brian says, flooring you into silence. Something in you breaks. Suddenly you can't stop laughing.

 

It hasn't been five minutes and you decide you love this man already.

 

That night, in your new apartment in Toronto, you unpack your skates.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a retirement fic, one that would be suitable for the amazing skater that Javi is. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that retirement wasn't so much of an ending as it was a beginning. And so it seemed only fitting to return back to the beginning. So here is something rough, unpolished, but entirely my own. It is my hope that any new fs fans who stumble across this work will appreciate the struggles (and accomplishments!) Javi overcame as a small federation skater.
> 
> For fans interested in learning more about Javi's early skater days, I highly recommend Javier's autobiography, _Bailando el hielo_.
> 
> *The book referenced in this fic is Dan Millman's "Way of the Peaceful Warrior" a semi-fictional, semi-autobiographical work about a gymnast who gets into a horrific accident that almost costs him his career but he finds a spiritual guide in a gas station attendant named Socrates.


End file.
